is suavity of manner.

'Am I interrupting you?'

'Not at all,' said Rose; then, turning back to Langham, she said in a
hurried whisper: 'Don't say anything about the wretched man; it would
make mamma nervous. He shan't come here again.'

Mr. Flaxman waited till the whisper was over, and then led her off, with
a change of manner which she immediately perceived, and which lasted for
the rest of the evening.

Langham went home, and sat brooding over the fire. Her voice had not
been so kind, her look so womanly, for months. Had she been reading
_Shirley_, and would she have liked him to play Louis Moore? He went
into a fit of silent convulsive laughter as the idea occurred to him.

Some secret instinct made him keep away from her for a time. At last,
one Friday afternoon, as he emerged from the Museum, where he had been
collating the MSS. of some obscure Alexandrian, the old craving returned
with added strength, and he turned involuntarily westward.

An acquaintance of his, recently made in the course of work at the
Museum, a young Russian professor, ran after him, and walked with him.
Presently they passed a poster on the wall, which contained in enormous
letters the announcement of Madame Desforets's approaching visit to
London, a list of plays, and the dates of performances.

The young Russian suddenly stopped and stood pointing at the
advertisement, with shaking derisive finger, his eyes aflame, the whole
man quivering with what looked like antagonism and hate.

Then he broke into a fierce flood of French. Langham listened till they
had passed Piccadilly, passed the Park, and till the young _savant_
turned southwards towards his Brompton lodgings.

Then Langham slowly climbed Campden Hill, meditating. His thoughts were
an odd mixture of the things he had just heard, and of a scene at
Murewell long ago when a girl had denounced him for 'calumny.'

At the door of Lerwick Gardens he was informed that Mrs. Leyburn was
upstairs with an attack of bronchitis. But the servant thought the young
ladies were at home. Would he come in? He stood irresolute a moment,
then went in on a pretext of 'inquiry.'

The maid threw open the drawing-room door, and there was Rose sitting
well into the fire--for it was a raw February afternoon--with a book.

She received him with all her old hard brightness. He was, indeed,
instantly sorry that he had made his way in. Tyrant! was she displeased
because he had slipped his chain for ra